


Conflagration

by skysedge



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Hair-pulling, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23895766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysedge/pseuds/skysedge
Summary: “I wouldn’t mind burning,”he had said once, when she had been touching his hair for too long and he had reached up to stroke hers in return.“If the fire was as beautiful as you.”Of course, she had pushed him off the bed and forced him out the room after he had said it but she thinks about it sometimes, even now. About fire and about beauty. About him. About them. About the storm that they live in as if it’s fine weather. About how all fires eventually burn out.
Relationships: Drang/Sturm (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	Conflagration

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for sexual themes only.

It only happens once in a blue moon, usually after a long day of hard work and a good meal. Sturm is always the one that starts it. She hardly believes it herself.

“You can come in if you want,” she says, holding the door to her room open. __ “But say a single word and you’re out.”

The first time, Drang had given an enthusiastic response containing at least twenty words and three irritating noises and she had slammed the door in his face. He’s learned since then. Tonight he simply raises a finger to his lips and let himself in, closing the door softly behind him. 

It’s been years now, both since they started working together and since they started this routine. They move in tandem just as they do on the battlefield, his eyes on her and hers on the floor, or the bed, or anything that isn’t him. She sheds her armour and her cloak, kicks off her boots and in bra and shorts sets her swords against the wall beside the bed. She can hear him folding up his cloak and jacket untying his armour but he’s long since learned the hard way that if his shirt or pants come off he’s out the door. She climbs onto the bed without looking at him and props herself up against the headboard, leaving him enough room to make himself comfortable.

The bed dips under his weight and he settles quickly. Inevitably they end up like this, with his head in her lap and his arms curved loosely around her waist, his long legs sprawled inelegantly across the covers. It’s fine so long as she doesn’t think about it. She finds it weird how even after so many years being tough and world-hardened, there’s nothing quite so comforting after a bad day than physical contact,  than the weight and warmth of another person, even someone as foolish as Drang. 

Maybe it’s because it  _ is _ him that...but no. That’s too much thinking. Enough of that.

She runs her fingers through his hair, straightening the waves and curls and then letting go, watching them spring back into place. His cheek is warm against her thigh. She can feel him smiling and that’s almost too much, too far, but he’s staying quiet and so she lets it slide for now. She continues playing with his hair, watching the way the colour shifts with the flickering candlelight. Sometimes clear blue like the endless sky, sometimes threaded with green like a forest river. It’s a colour that’s hard to pin down and that’s so very  _ him  _ that she almost wants to accuse him of magicking it this way. 

“ _ I wouldn’t mind burning,”  _ he had said once, when she had been touching his hair for too long and he had reached up to stroke hers in return. “ _ If the fire was as beautiful as you.” _

Of course, she had pushed him off the bed and forced him out the room after he had said  it but she thinks about it sometimes, even now. About fire and about beauty. About him. About them. About the storm that they live in as if it’s fine weather. About how all fires eventually burn out. 

She sighs in irritation, pulls a little too hard at his hair and he gasps against her skin.  _ Ah _ . There’s this sort of fire too. It’s late and she shouldn’t but she pulls at his hair again just to see, just to check. His arms tighten around her.

“Mm..?”

It’s a strange little noise that he makes, somewhere between a questioning hum and a sound of approval. It dawns on her that his voice has a nice quality to it when he isn’t using it for nonsense, a smooth and lilting tone that fits the warm atmosphere in the air. Her own would probably sound out of place. He’s always been better at reading a mood than she is, a better actor by far. But this time, she thinks, he’s not acting. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, unsure as to what she’s apologising for but smoothing her right hand through his hair again and lowering her left to rest on his shoulder. 

He’s still playing by the rules and doesn’t speak, only makes a sound of dismissal that sets the record straight again. Or so she thinks. Then she feels his fingers begin creeping up her side, dancing little patterns across her hip, and her breath catches. There’s the fire again, not in her hair or in his magic but prickling under her skin and coiling in her stomach. It’s late, she’s tired, both good excuses for the way she walks her own fingers across his shoulder and over the collar of his shirt. Running her index finger along the juncture between his shoulder and neck she can feel both his heartbeat and the light shiver than runs through him. In turn he follows the curve of her ribs with his thumb and her treacherous eyes fall shut.

She’s not stupid. She knows what this is, what they’re dancing around. It would be easy enough to give in to it, to work out some stress with the physical, to use him only as much as she wants then tell him to leave. She’s never been blind to his desire. She sees the way he looks at her. Sometimes, when she’s certain he can’t see, she looks at him the same way. But...

“ _ You can use my lap for a pillow this time, if you want,”  _ he had said one night. “ _ I won’t laugh.” _

But it’s because he says these things that she won’t. She can’t. Sure, they might be burning but it’s a damn good fire and she wants to let it rage for as long as possible. It’s  fine this way. Safe. Things can’t change. If they  did she’s sure he would slip away from her, like water through her hands. He knows so much about her; she’s never actively tried to keep secrets. But when it comes to him, she has nothing but questions they both know she won’t ask. He never volunteers answers.

He’s not ready. She’s not sure he’ll ever be. And unless he is, things have to say the same.

It’s not like she doesn’t enjoy it like this, anyway. She lets his hands wander, lets herself twitch and shiver with each light touch, his deft fingers already knowing each inch of skin that will please her. Her eyes still shut, she runs her nails along his scalp and across the back of his neck, listening carefully for his soft, honest sighs. She has no idea how long they stay like this, just touching and feeling and not thinking at all.

“You know...”

He talks and ruins it. He always does.

She pulls her hands away from him and opens her eyes with a sigh.

“What?” she asks.

“We could save on our outgoings,” he continues, knowing by now his cue to leave and sitting up. “It’s just an idea, though.”

An absurd subject at a time like this. She’s not surprised by it at all. This is exactly why she’s not going to agree with whatever he’s going to say.

“Spit it out,” she says, pushing him to the edge of the bed. “Then get out.”

He takes his time, straightening his shirt and fixing his hair with his usual easy-going smile. It’s only when she goes to smack him that he meets her eyes with a sharp smile and her stomach lurches.

“We could start only paying for one room,” he suggests. “Spend the extra money on better steak. I can sleep on the floor, if you want. But it would stop us from having to repeat ourselves so much, you know?”

She really  _ could  _ make him sleep on the floor. He’s pathetic. But sometimes, on nights like this, she doesn’t mind. She hesitates.

“I...”

“It’s just an idea,” he murmurs, giving her a smile that tugs at her insides. “Think about it.”

He gets to his feet and gathers his clothes then moves to the door without any further prompting. Left on the bed, one leg hanging off the side as if she’s ready to stand and the other tucked up under her, Sturm can feel her cheeks heat up. There’s nothing she can think of to say.

“Good night,” he says, glancing over his shoulder one final time before letting himself out and closing the door behind him. 

The room seems colder the moment he’s gone. Maybe she’s as pathetic as he is after all. 

“Ugh, whatever.”

She flops back on the bed, pressing her hands to her cheeks. It’ll fade soon. Her heart will stop racing, her body will cool down and she’ll go to sleep and when she wakes up tomorrow it will be the same as always. Just the way it should be. And then some other time, weeks from now, they’ll do it all over again

It only happens once in a blue moon. Sturm is always the one that starts it. Drang always gets the last word. She’ll probably always let him. 

A fire can’t burn forever. Not even one as fierce as this. She doesn’t want to be the one who puts it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I just wanted to write about playing with Drang's hair, who knows?
> 
> I am love for these two, I hope you are too.
> 
> Hit me up on twitter @_zenbee


End file.
